


Devil Dreams

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [33]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Angst, Dragon Riders, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27685090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: Emilie of Duras comes to Paris preaching war against King Philip of Spain. The nature of her “visions” strikes a chord with Aramis after his own harrowing experience and challenges his faith.
Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564573
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some dialogue from 2x4 throughout this fic.

Athos stood under the forest's canopy, watching the large group of people gathered beyond its edge. Beside him, Savron's gaze tracked the red-haired woman astride a white horse as she was led among the crowd.

"I have seen the Devil seated on his throne in his Palace of Gold," she proclaimed loudly. "I have witnessed the face of death, and he wears a Spanish crown!"

Athos exchanged a look with his friends. They had heard this Emilie of Duras was spouting incendiary rhetoric against Spain, but they hadn't expected it to be so…colorful.

"And under his crown are horns and under his fine robes are bloody hooves. I have looked on King Philip of Spain in his true self, the Antichrist, the enemy of God!"

Cheers went up among the people—men, women, and children—who had flocked to this girl's wild ravings.

"Sons and daughters of France, we must destroy the Devil before he destroys us. With our beloved King Louis to lead us, we must march on Spain and drag Satan from his lair!"

The cheers roared louder, gaining intensity as they spread through the masses.

"God bless you, Emilie of Duras!" a woman cried. "You're a saint!"

"Not a saint, but an ordinary woman," Emilie replied.

She closed her eyes then, her head swaying for a moment before she abruptly collapsed forward. There was a collective gasp as several people lunged to catch her.

"The Prophet is tired!" the older woman who had been leading the horse declared. "She must rest!"

A black man ducked in to lift Emilie into his arms.

"She's mad," d'Artagnan said bluntly from where he stood, Ayelet's head hanging over his shoulder.

"And dangerous," Athos replied.

"Musketeers are here!" someone shouted.

Every head in the crowd snapped their direction and the sea of people began to move toward them, many of the peasants drawing hack blades and holding scythes and pitchforks as they formed a wall of bodies at the edge of the tree line. Rhaego bared his teeth in response, and Aramis put a calming hand on his dragon's neck.

"I'm gettin' the feeling that we're not welcome here," Porthos grumbled.

The black man who'd helped Emilie pushed his way to the forefront. "What do you want?" he asked hostilely.

"We're here on the King's business," Aramis replied. "To see Emilie of Duras."

For a long moment, it looked like they wouldn't be allowed to pass. Vrita narrowed her eyes and let out a smokey snort that caused a few people to shift nervously. Then the apparent spokesman for Emilie stepped to the side and extended his arm.

"By all means."

The musketeers shared guarded looks before moving forward. Their dragons stayed in the woods but their watchful presence would certainly keep the peasants on their best behavior. Still, there was a definite tension as the four of them made their way through the camp and into Emilie's tent where they found her seated in a wooden chair draped with furs like a makeshift throne. The older woman who'd been with her was stirring a cooking pot in the back.

"King's Musketeers to see you, Emilie," the black man announced.

She gestured for them to come in. "Please. I expected the King would send his representatives soon, and I am pleased to see his most famed warriors."

"You know it is an act of treason to raise an army without the King's authority?" Athos said, cutting through the niceties.

Emilie smiled. "I love the King. God has told me to seek him out so he can lead his people to victory."

The older woman brought Emilie a bowl of soup. "We'll march on Spain and trample King Philip into the dust," she said assuredly.

"How are you gonna to do that?" Porthos asked sarcastically. "I don't see any cavalry. I don't see any artillery."

"God is worth a thousand cannons," Emilie replied.

"Did God tell you to hate the Spanish?" d'Artagnan put in, a notable thread of disdain in his tone.

"I hate no one," she declared ardently, rising from her seat. "If King Philip submits, his people will be left in peace."

Athos refrained from commenting on what he thought of that likelihood.

Emilie's eyes suddenly rolled back and she fell against the older woman, the bowl of soup clinking to the floor.

Porthos looked ready to move in and assist, but the black man pushed his way forward first.

"She has the fainting sickness," the older woman said. "It is when God speaks to her."

The musketeers watched as the girl was carried into another part of the tent to lie down. It seemed their audience with her was at an end, so they quietly excused themselves to return to their dragons and from there headed back to the palace to report to the King and Treville…and Rochefort, as he was frequently inserting himself into the King's counsel.

"This girl's visions must be witchcraft and she should be burned at the stake," Rochefort declared after Athos had relayed what they'd witnessed.

Athos barely kept himself from rolling his eyes; Porthos and d'Artagnan didn't even try. Aramis seemed oddly contemplative and had been since their visit to the camp.

"Such quick judgement led to two innocent people being wrongly executed for witchcraft," Athos said pointedly. "We cannot jump to conclusions."

Rochefort glowered at him. "She is still dangerous. The mob are rampaging through Paris murdering anyone with a Spanish name. It's chaos."

"That is not grounds for burning a young girl to death," Athos countered. He turned to Louis. "Will you meet with her as she wishes?"

The King faltered and cast a nervous look around at them all. "Well…but suppose she is a witch?" he hedged. "No, it's not safe with Milady at large."

"Why don't we just arrest her?" d'Artagnan put in. "For inciting the mobs?"

"It's not that simple," Treville answered. "This Emilie has thousands of supporters, you've seen them. If they march for the border, Spain would have a legitimate pretext for war."

"She's sick," Porthos insisted. "She's touched in the head."

"She fainted while we were speaking to her," d'Artagnan added. "Apparently, she's been having fits since she was a child."

"Some people call that the sacred affliction," Aramis finally spoke up. "Perhaps she's genuinely blessed."

"More like cursed," Rochefort said disparagingly.

"With faith, anything is possible," Aramis replied, undaunted.

"All right, Aramis," Treville interjected. "As you're the expert on God, you can deal with her."

Aramis's brows rose sharply.

"Go to the camp tonight," Treville instructed. "Gain her trust, find out what her weaknesses are."

"I didn't become a musketeer to destroy an _honest_ woman's reputation," he protested.

"Would you rather see her march thousands of innocent people to a Spanish slaughterhouse?"

Aramis hesitated at that and didn't offer up any more protest. Athos eyed him carefully; he wasn't sure about sending one man in alone among a bunch of zealots. Though, if anyone could charm their way into the young woman's confidence, it would be Aramis. If he had a mind to, and, at the moment, Athos couldn't tell where the marksman's head was at.

"Speaking of the witch Milady," Treville continued, turning back to the King. "Since Rochefort hasn't made any recent progress on tracking her down, might I suggest we call in another witch hunter to assist?"

Rochefort straightened sharply. "I can handle it."

"Surely extra help at this point could only be an asset," Treville pressed, staring the man down.

"Treville is right," Louis readily agreed. "Milady's attacks have gone on too long. I want all the reinforcements we can get."

Rochefort's jaw visibly ticked but he managed to incline his head in acquiescence. "Of course, Your Majesty."

"I'll send for one immediately," Treville said.

This time Athos couldn't keep the smug expression off his face, though neither could the others as the King dismissed them and Rochefort went away looking like he'd sucked on a lime.

"Aramis," Athos said softly as they started to leave. "Are you up to this?"

"Up to publicly destroying a woman?" he scoffed, then shook his head. "I'll do my duty, Athos."

"I know you will. And be careful."

Aramis didn't give a quip in return as he walked out.

.o.0.o.

Rhaego could immediately tell by his rider's stride that something was wrong as Aramis made his way into the garrison and toward the barracks. When he re-emerged a few minutes later with a plain dark cloak and _without_ his pauldron on his shoulder, Rhaego became even more alert and headed over.

Aramis pulled up short and sagged a little as Rhaego intercepted him. "Sorry, my friend, but you can't come with me on this mission."

Rhaego gurgled indignantly. He didn't see anyone else accompanying him.

Aramis patted him on the shoulder. "I'm going back to the encampment. And unfortunately, you will definitely draw attention."

Back to the encampment with the hordes of restless humans? Rhaego straightened stiffly and shot his rider his most disapproving scowl.

Aramis's lips twitched. "There's a ridge just to the south of the camp. You could take up a perch there to keep an eye out."

Rhaego furrowed his expression. He recalled the place. It wasn't nearly close enough, not if Aramis would end up needing help.

"It will have to be good enough," his human said, then gave him a farewell pat before turning to head off on foot.

Which left Rhaego no choice but to take to the skies. He circled the city and out over the encampment that had set up just outside its walls, staying high enough that he wouldn't draw obvious attention. It took him a while to locate Aramis from that height, and he wasn't able to spot him until he'd left the city. Rhaego tracked his progress to the woods where he lost him again under the trees, much to his irritation. And there were too many people milling about the encampment that he couldn't easily pick out Aramis once he re-emerged to mingle with them.

Vexed, he finally veered away toward the small ridge where a dragon might choose to sun himself all day and _not_ spy on a bunch of rabble rousing humans.

He was soaring over the fields when Ayelet dipped into the currents beside him and asked what he was doing. Apparently she'd been out for her own leisurely flight when she'd spotted him.

He curtly said he was busy with Musketeer business, which he should have known would only excite her into wanting to help.

She flapped her wings to match his speed and asked if it had anything to do with the humans they'd observed that morning.

Rhaego huffed and said Aramis had gone back to infiltrate them, and he was to stand watch at a distance.

They reached the ridge and Rhaego pulled up to land on the rocky outcropping. Ayelet ended up zooming past but banked sharply to come back around and land next to him. She commented on how far away this perch was and it wasn't easy to see what was happening in the camp.

Rhaego snapped that they couldn't draw attention to themselves by getting closer.

Ayelet fell silent for a few moments after that, but then went on to say that these people were making a stand against the Spanish, and the Spanish were the ones who'd tortured Falkor and Rochefort so badly, so maybe this Emilie girl was right to march against them.

Rhaego rolled his eyes. He didn't like Rochefort. Or Falkor. The Spanish he didn't give a whit about one way or the other. He figured they were just like any other humans: good and bad mixed together. He knew that's what Savron or Vrita would tell Ayelet in response to her comment. Not that she'd been doing a very good job of listening to them lately. Savron had warned her to stay away from Falkor but she'd been spending time with him anyway.

Was that what her rider would say, he snipped. Did d'Artagnan hate the Spanish?

Ayelet cowed slightly. No, she admitted. She didn't think d'Artagnan hated anyone.

Rhaego suggested she pay more attention to him than Falkor. It may have come out a bit snidely, though, because she narrowed her eyes, and then in a huff, launched back into the air and flew away.

Rhaego grumbled to himself. Good riddance. He didn't need her pestering questions right now.

Still, he shifted awkwardly as he settled in for a solitary and distant watch on his own rider.


	2. Chapter 2

Aramis waited in the woods until nightfall before entering the camp. He stayed away from the road and the bridge that had people congregated around braziers and instead crossed the small stream where it was shallowest. Once he was on the other side, he pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head and meandered through the tents and various campfires where families had gathered to share the evening meal, navigating his way toward Emilie's lodging. The good thing about there being so many people there was it was easy to go unnoticed as one of them.

He slowed his pace as he approached Emilie's tent, sweeping his gaze around. When there was a break between passing peasants, he carefully backed up and slipped through the outer tent flaps. Emilie's voice wafted out from the inner sanctum.

"The anguish and suffering, the cries for help. I feel I'm in Hell."

Aramis paused just inside, remaining behind the second layer of canvas folds.

"God is showing you the agonies of the damned," came the reply. The older woman who never seemed to leave Emilie's side. "So you know what will happen if you fail."

Aramis faltered. He'd thought Emilie was the orchestrator behind all this, but perhaps she was being encouraged. There was still the matter of her visions, though, and while the others obviously doubted her, Aramis could hear the genuine pain and fear in her voice just now as she spoke of them. It triggered memories of his own recent experience with terrible, haunting visions.

The tent flap suddenly flipped open as the black man from earlier entered. For a split second, they both froze at the sight of each other. Then the man swung the scythe in his hand and Aramis ducked underneath it. He had only his sword with him but he didn't dare draw to spill blood and instead brandished it like a staff, knocking the man aside.

Unfortunately, several more men came charging in at the commotion. Aramis whipped his cloak off and thwacked it in one man's face, disorienting him enough to follow through with clubbing him with the side of his sheathed blade. But there were too many and he was soon seized by multiple hands and flung to the ground inside the tent, his weapon yanked away.

"We've captured an assassin!"

"Kill him," the old woman snapped.

"No!" Aramis grunted as his arms were pulled back and his head forced down as he was held pinned to the floor on his knees. "I mean no harm. I'm here to see Emilie," he exclaimed.

"Let God's work be done," the old woman declared.

Aramis strained against the men holding him as the black man set the scythe to his neck and raised it high to strike.

"Wait!" Emilie yelled, surging to her feet.

Everyone stopped at her command, and Aramis lifted his head toward her, blood roaring in his ears.

Emilie moved to stand before him. "I know you. You're one of the Musketeers."

"I heard you preach," he said, fumbling for what to say to convince them not to kill him on the spot. "I…I was inspired, I want to hear more."

"He looks Spanish," the older woman said disparagingly.

"I'm French!" he retorted.

"They've sent him to kill you," she went on.

"No," he pleaded, looking at Emilie as she knelt in front of him, her gaze searching.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I've deserted, to join your cause," he answered hurriedly.

Emilie considered him for another moment before nodding to the men to release him. Aramis's labored breathing stuttered as he was finally let go. He stayed where he was, though, on his knees, knowing he was still at their mercy.

Emilie got to her feet, still regarding him with thorough contemplation. After another moment, she held out her hand to help him up and he took it.

"Have a seat," she said casually.

Aramis's nerves were still ringing from his near brush with execution and he didn't move right away. He glanced at the black man who was still holding his scythe threateningly, but at least Emilie seemed to have his leash firmly in hand. Aramis slowly moved toward one of the short stools by the cooking fire and sat down.

The older woman dished out some stew into a bowl and handed it to Emilie. She glared at him scathingly as she served him one as well. Then she went outside with the man to converse in private.

"My mother is very protective," Emilie said by way of explanation.

Ah, that explained some things.

"Are you really a deserter, Aramis?" she asked over their supper.

He tried not to flinch, already regretting that ruse, though he'd had little time to think of something better in the heat of the moment. The word stung, too, echoes of his dead comrades from Savoy spitting that accusation at him. He tried to push them away.

"When I heard you preach, I knew…this was where I belonged." He looked up as the older woman returned. "As a soldier, I'm used to following orders," he went on. "But sometimes a man must follow his conscience instead."

"Even though they might hang you?" Emilie challenged.

He waited a beat before answering soberly, "Even then."

She smiled with delight. "I will ask the King to pardon you. I'm expecting an audience very soon. I've dreamt it will happen."

Aramis hesitated. Again, Emilie seemed sincere when speaking about her visions. "Do your dreams always come true?" he asked carefully.

"Always."

Again, he could only detect sincerity in her. She truly believed what she was saying, that was for certain. The question was whether her perceptions and reality were congruent.

"People are calling you Joan of Arc reborn," he said, standing to dish out more stew for himself, in an effort to keep the dinner conversation going.

Emilie shook her head in disbelief. "I am not Joan." Her confident demeanor slipped. "I lack the courage to face the flames as she did," she admitted.

"But God has always spoken to you?" he pressed.

"When I sleep."

When she slept. Then how could she be certain her dreams were from God and not just an overactive imagination?

"I'm glad you're here, Aramis," she said, brightening again. "You will be at my side when we ride into Madrid."

He barely managed to return her smile and it came out more as a grimace. _That_ certainly wasn't going to come to pass. Was she basing that statement on confidence because he'd played his part well or did she think God was giving her that message?

Despite Aramis's assertion in front of his friends that Emilie might be truly blessed, he found himself very uncomfortable. Supposing God did speak to her, how did Aramis reconcile these messages of hate with the God of love he believed in?

They finished their supper and Emilie's mother shooed Aramis out for the night. There was a goats' pen just across from her tent, and he brushed some hay together before settling down for the night, though he didn't try to sleep right away. His thoughts were in tumult. There was enough light from all the various fires lit throughout the camp that he was able to pull out his Bible, which he'd brought with him, to read. The Word had always given him guidance.

Noises from the camp died down as everyone eventually bedded down for the night, leaving a still silence save for the crackling of flames.

It was abruptly broken by strangled cries coming from Emilie's tent.

"No! No! Stay back! No!"

Her shrieks continued. Aramis saw the older woman's shadow cross the tent to Emilie's cot, though her pained cries didn't stop for some time.

Aramis stayed where he was, his troubled thoughts stirred up again. If God spoke to Emilie when she slept, it did not sound pleasant. He remembered what he'd overheard when he'd first come here, how Emilie said she felt as though she were in Hell. How could that be from God?

Maybe Rochefort was right and it was witchcraft, just not of Emilie's own doing. Like how Milady had afflicted Aramis with tormenting visions of his dead brothers-in-arms. But who would be behind it and to what purpose? To instigate war with Spain? Could that be Milady's doing? No, he didn't see a motive. Her sights were set on more personal revenge.

Another of Emilie's screams had Aramis reaching for his rosary. Were they dealing with another witch, then? That was just what they needed.

Aramis closed his eyes and bowed his head, pressing the rosary to his lips. _Our God in Heaven, these evil forces seem to be so prevalent now. How can we combat them? I pray for Your might to aid us. Let us not be overcome._

.o.0.o.

The next morning Aramis was woken by the old woman who told him Emilie wanted to see him. But first she had him accompany her to the stream to fetch some water. Aramis broached the subject of Emilie's dreams, but the girl's mother remained staunch in her belief that her daughter was some kind of prophet. She seemed to relish the fanatics' attention more than Emilie did.

They returned to the tent where Emilie was sitting before the cooking fire, fidgeting with what looked like restless excitement. She looked up with a breaking smile as Aramis entered.

"I had a vision," she told him. "I saw you and me with the King. You were close by my side." She reached out to clasp his hand in both of hers. "I was happy."

Aramis couldn't bring himself to return her elation. The more he saw of Emilie of Duras, the more she seemed so young and innocent. Childlike, in a way. A child with a power she didn't understand or know how to use with grave responsibility.

He moved to sit across from her, letting gravity drop his hand out of hers. He forced out a smile. "What else did you dream of?"

She looked at him blankly.

"I heard your screams," he explained.

Emilie's expression shifted. "Death. Suffering," she said with a small shrug, like it was a common feature in her nightly visits. "A terror like a sharp blade cutting at my soul. I pray when the Spanish are defeated, God brings me peace."

Aramis's heart twinged with sympathy. He more than most could understand what she was going through, though he wasn't going to try to explain his own ordeal to her. That wasn't what was important here.

"How can you be so sure these visions come from God?" he asked.

"I feel God's light inside me. I have no doubts. Even in the agony there is a joy beyond comprehension. This is all His will," she said earnestly, gesturing toward Heaven. "It's not mine. How can I ignore it?"

Aramis didn't know what to say to that. He couldn't very well suggest her visions were from evil; that certainly wouldn't go over well. And she was so certain that her faith was true. But if her faith was in line with God, then what of Aramis's? He did not believe God wanted the Spanish slaughtered. His God espoused love, not hate. Peace, not violence. One of them was wrong, but how to find tangible proof in the face of an intangible, immeasurable God?

Emilie smiled again and stood. "Walk with me?"

Aramis rose slowly and followed her out. The camp was bustling with activity, not the least of which was people sharpening their blades in preparation for war. But these were peasants, not soldiers. If they marched on Spain, there would be a slaughter alright. But Aramis wasn't making any headway here on putting a stop to it. He was beginning to wonder if that was even possible.

In the sky in the distance, he saw a red dragon circling high above the countryside and relaxed slightly. He wished there was a way to send word to the others about his status, but he couldn't risk it.

"My people are restless," Emilie spoke up. "They love their King. Why does he not love them? I don't know how long I can contain their anger."

Aramis turned his attention back to her. "That sounds like a threat."

A child ran up to Emilie and she smiled brightly in greeting, taking the little girl's hand so she could walk with them.

"The King and I are both servants of God," Emilie said. "We must obey His will. He must send for me soon."

"If you march on Spain, most of these people will die," Aramis said, trying to appeal to reason. "Do you think God can protect them from muskets, artillery, gunpowder, dragons?"

Emilie bit her lip for a small moment before looking him in the eye. "I know He will. Faith is the only armor we need."

Aramis exhaled in frustration. That was the problem with faith—it defied reason.

"Why Spain?" he tried next. "Why not England or the Holy Roman Empire?"

"It is not for me to say."

"You think God told you _explicitly_ that King Philip was the Antichrist?" he pressed.

Emilie gazed back at him, unfazed. "I know you don't believe in me, Aramis. But I know you for a good man." She bent down to pick the little girl up in her arms. "You won't betray me."

Aramis's conscience twinged at him. That was exactly what he'd come here to do.

So did that disprove Emilie's faith in God's so-called prophecies…or his?

.o.0.o.

D'Artagnan took Ayelet out to do an aerial survey of the encampment. It was difficult to tell without actual numbers, but there was an obvious train of people arriving that only added to Emilie's mass of followers. And that didn't include the groups in the city that were forming the mobs and attacking anyone they thought was Spanish.

He caught sight of Rhaego flying in a wide circle and waved to him. The russet dragon veered away to land on an outcrop of rocks far from the edge of the camp. Given the small concealment it provided, d'Artagnan guessed he'd spent the entire night out there.

"Have you seen Aramis?" he asked once he and Ayelet landed as well.

Rhaego bobbed his head in the affirmative, which was a relief. At least Aramis seemed to be doing okay in the camp. D'Artagnan wondered about his progress but of course they couldn't go in and ask, and he imagined Aramis would find it difficult to get away without drawing suspicion.

Rhaego's expression turned sullen, and d'Artagnan could imagine how frustrated he was at having to stay away.

"Aramis can handle himself," he assured the dragon. "Have you eaten?"

Rhaego hunched down, which d'Artagnan took as a negative.

"Why don't you go get some food," he suggested. "Ayelet and I will stay here and stand watch until you get back."

Rhaego flicked a hesitant look toward the camp before relenting and taking off.

D'Artagnan stayed in the saddle, both his and Ayelet's gazes directed toward the growing army and the lone musketeer in their midst.


	3. Chapter 3

Constance was giving Dragor a brushing down when the Queen came to visit the compound.

"Your Majesty," she greeted brightly, only to falter at Anne's pursed expression. "Is something wrong?"

"Surely you've heard of the unrest in the city," Anne replied.

Constance grimaced. "Yes. D'Artagnan's been away with the Musketeers trying to stop it."

The Queen nodded, wringing her hands. "The Musketeers are doing their best, I know. But innocent people are dying, all because of that foolish peasant girl who thinks she can talk to God."

Constance gave Dragor a subtle nudge to leave them, and the dragon shuffled back to his den.

"They say she speaks like an angel," Constance ventured. It was all the talk in the market when she went out.

"Angel of death," Anne retorted scornfully. She shook her head helplessly. "I can't stand idly by and watch my fellow countrymen slaughtered. If the King won't do something, I will have to."

"Why won't the King see her?" Constance asked. With d'Artagnan busy handling the riots, she hadn't had a chance to ask him about the situation.

The Queen huffed and put her restless hands on her hips. "His advisors won't allow it. They say it would only encourage her."

"Can't you talk to him?"

"I've tried, many times." Anne bit her lip and cast a hesitant look around. Constance realized she hadn't brought any of her ladies-in-waiting or attendants with her. When Anne spoke again, it was in a softer voice. "The King won't say so, but he's afraid to meet with her, afraid she might be a witch. He barely leaves the palace anymore because of Milady."

Constance had noticed; it'd fallen to her to take over Dragor's exercise again now that the King no longer came for his weekly flights. "And what do you think?" she asked.

"I think I must do _something_." Anne hesitated a moment. "I came here to ask if you would help me, Constance."

She furrowed her brow in confusion. "Help how?"

"Will you come with me to see Emilie myself?"

Constance's eyes widened. "Alone?" she blurted.

"Not if you say yes," Anne replied hopefully.

Constance didn't know what to say. That did _not_ sound like a good idea. "What about the Musketeers?"

Anne shook her head. "I want to speak with Emilie as an equal, not bring a show of force."

Constance could tell the Queen was determined in this, and she most definitely couldn't let her go alone. "Alright," she reluctantly agreed.

Anne smiled in relief. "I don't suppose I could trouble you for a change of dress? So I don't look so…obvious?" She gestured at her fine gown.

Constance really thought this was a bad idea but she nevertheless took Anne into her home and got out her best dress for her to borrow. She also gave her a spare cloak. Part of her wished her father would walk in on them and put a stop to this madness, but he never did, and the two of them were able to walk out the back gate unnoticed and head for the woods that led to the encampment outside the city. If only they could have brought a dragon for protection, but that certainly would have given them away.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," Constance said as they approached the camp and she saw just how many of these people were armed.

"If the King won't grant Emilie an audience, I must," Anne replied staunchly, then added under her breath, "What choice do I have?"

"You could have stayed safe at home. And so could I."

"I want to be useful, Constance. To show the King there are some things only a Queen can do."

Constance sighed inwardly. The Queen had a good heart; that was what made her a fair and just ruler.

"How do I look?" Anne asked.

Constance glanced at her. "Beautiful."

"That's not what I meant," she whispered back.

They approached the bridge that led into the main camp.

"I don't see any muskets or swords," Anne said. "These are just ordinary people. I'm sure they'll listen to reason."

Constance didn't point out the various farm tools that could obviously be used as weaponry—or the fact that reason rarely worked on devout followers.

They walked across the bridge, holding their heads high with faked confidence, like they belonged there. But even in their simple dress and cloaks, men stepped out to block their path, each of them holding sharp blades.

"What do you want?" one of them demanded.

"We're looking for Emilie," Constance answered.

"Who wants her?" a black man sitting on the edge of the bridge asked.

"Two women who've seen the damage you've caused," Anne said.

The man canted his head with a quirk of his lips. "Tell us your name."

Constance touched the Queen's arm in firm warning and stepped around her. "Constance d'Artagnan. And this is my friend Anne."

"Well, we can't let just anyone see Emilie," the man said. "It wouldn't be safe."

Constance didn't have a response to that, and neither did the Queen it seemed, because she appeared to be faltering for a reply.

The man leaned forward. "I know you. You're her. The Queen. The Spanish bitch!"

"I am as loyal to France as any of you!" Anne declared as every person in the vicinity stopped to look their way.

Constance cringed. She'd known this couldn't go well.

The black man surged to his feet. "There is not a drop of French blood running in your veins," he spat.

Constance reflexively put a protective arm in front of Anne.

The man paused to consider them. "Who puts a fox in a hen house? Why are you really here?"

Constance drew her chin up. "We've told you—"

He grabbed her and shoved her toward the men. "Take her!"

Anne yelped as she was seized too, and Constance twisted around to reach for her, drawing her close as they were manhandled through the camp and into a large tent.

"A present for you, Emilie. The Spanish Queen herself."

They were both shoved forward where they halted to a stop, and both of them stared in shock at the sight of Aramis, who looked equally stupefied to see them.

"Your Majesty," he uttered.

A young woman with red hair in two long braids and dressed in a chainmail jacket stormed over. Emilie, Constance presumed. The girl shot Aramis a sharp look that made him falter. What was he doing here? Neither Constance nor Anne asked as Emilie stepped up to the Queen, eyes boring into her. Constance held fast to Anne's hand. After a moment, Emilie gestured for the men to back away.

She turned her head toward Aramis again, who had yet to move from his spot, then back to the Queen. "This man is a musketeer. He deserted his regiment to join me."

Constance and Anne shared a nervous look at that.

"Do you know each other?" Emilie asked pointedly.

"He has been loyal in the past," Anne said. "I am sorry he has forgotten his duty."

"Why are you here?"

"I came here to talk to you, not only as your Queen but as a woman. Do you really believe that God wants this hatred and violence?" she implored. "You must know that our Savior preached love and forgiveness—"

"I don't need lectures on religion," Emilie cut her off.

Constance saw Aramis wince. Yes, reason was going to work out so well.

"My message is from God himself."

"Look into your heart—"

"You should not be here!" Emilie bellowed, making them both flinch.

"We should just cut off her head and send it to her brother as a gift," the black man spat.

Aramis finally surged forward and flung the man around, snarling, "Lay one finger on her—"

Emilie threw up a hand to hold the black man back. "For a deserter, you show a high degree of devotion to the Queen," she snapped at Aramis. "Would you defend me with such passion?"

"Do you really think the King will tolerate any barbarity towards his Queen?" Anne interjected sharply.

"We should hang her," an older woman sitting in the back declared. She had her fingers steepled together and was watching things unfold with calm interest. "In the morning, in front of the whole host. Leave the King free to marry an honest Frenchwoman. He'll thank us for it."

"That's madness," Aramis rejoined. "He'd send his dragons to slaughter us all," he appealed to Emilie.

"Abraham was willing to sacrifice his son for God," the old woman went on. "The King should do likewise with his wife. It will inspire his people," she said with relish.

Constance swallowed hard and glanced at Aramis again, wondering if there was any way he could get them out of this.

Emilie moved to stand in front of the Queen again. "God will show me what to do," she declared. "Until then…you will be our guest."

With that, she moved away, and Constance saw out of the corner of her eye the men slip out of the tent. But she wasn't naive enough to think they weren't standing right outside, ready to come to Emilie's call.

Guest was just a polite way of saying prisoner.

.o.0.o.

Aramis's mind was awhirl with the unforeseen complication of the Queen and Constance being here. What were they _thinking_?

He dished up a bowl of stew, glancing guardedly at Emilie and her mother on the other side of the tent. Emilie was watching him. The Queen's arrival had shaken her trust in him, but he couldn't have very well stood by and let them execute her.

He brought the bowl over to the Queen. "Here," he said loudly with a touch of brusqueness, then lowered his voice. "With the respect, Your Majesty, are you completely out of your mind?"

"I thought I could help," she said despondently. "That she might listen to reason."

"Faith has little to do with reason," he said, pulling his braces up over his shoulders. "If Emilie foresees your death tonight, God knows how I'm going to get you out of here." He cast a surreptitious look at Emilie and her mother and found them doing the same to him. This was a right mess.

Constance pulled the sheets down from the cot and leaned toward him. "D'Artagnan didn't tell me you were here," she said in a hushed volume. "You are here as a spy, right?"

He shot her an exasperated look. "I've been trying to get to the truth behind Emilie."

Constance busied herself with folding the edges of the sheets nicely. "Isn't the truth that she's mad?"

"Her visions are real," Aramis said. He hesitated, a haunted expression flitting across his face. He bent down to pretend to help Constance with the bedding. "When Milady sent those hallucinations, they seemed as real as you are now. And they were terrifying. Emilie's visions terrorize her. I don't know what's going on, but I can't discount what she's experiencing. I want to help her."

Constance gave him a sympathetic look.

Aware that he was spending too much time over there, he straightened abruptly. "You should try the broth," he said loudly. "It's good."

"Take mine," Emilie called over. "I'm not hungry."

"Thank you," he said, picking up her bowl and taking it back over to Constance. "If you need me, I'll be close by," he said softly, then headed out to his spot across from the tent next to the goat pen.

He couldn't sleep, though, too worried that one of Emilie's followers—or her mother—might take matters into their own hands and harm the Queen. He also worried over what Emilie's dreams would show her that night.

He now shared Rhaego's earlier frustration at not being able to stick closer to camp. His dragon would be able to get the Queen and Constance out. Aramis considered finding a way to signal him in the dark and just get the Queen out now without risking Emilie's decision in the morning. It would mean abandoning his mission before he'd discovered the truth, but the Queen's life was more important.

Distressed sounds started coming from the tent, and Aramis tensed to listen to Emilie's latest nightmare. But it wasn't her voice that shattered the silence of the night—it was Constance's.

Aramis leaped to his feet and ran back into the tent, thinking they were under attack. But Constance was on the cot, eyes tightly closed and thrashing in her sleep.

"No!"

Anne scrambled from her own bed and reached for Constance's arm. Aramis rushed to her other side and gripped her shoulder, trying to shake her awake. But she continued to jerk and scream, her skin glistening with sweat. Then suddenly she bolted upright with a ragged gasp, her eyes flying open. Both Aramis and Anne braced her arms as she sucked in desperate breaths.

"Constance, what is it?" Anne asked worriedly. "You were crying out in your sleep."

"It was so real," she said between shuddering breaths. She turned terrified eyes to Aramis. "I was there and…"

"Shhh, you were dreaming," he soothed, rubbing her arm.

"What if I wasn't? What if it was…?"

He shook his head staunchly. "I don't think she would target you like this."

Constance let out a broken sob. "I've never felt anything like it before. I was so scared."

"God granted you a prophecy," Emilie spoke up.

Constance looked at her, bewildered. "You're wrong," she said, still shaking uncontrollably. She looked at the Queen, lip trembling. "I hope you're wrong."

"We can't reject the truth when it is revealed," Emilie insisted, then turned to go back to bed.

Constance broke down into sobs and Anne pulled her into an embrace.

Aramis turned a thoughtful gaze toward Emilie, who curiously had not had a vision this night. Her mother, reclining in the back, had a stone cold expression on her face that made Aramis even more suspicious that something wasn't right here.

He returned his attention to Constance, rubbing her arm as she cried into Anne's shoulder. After a few more minutes, she finally calmed and pulled back, wiping at her eyes furiously.

"I'm sorry," she said in a ragged voice.

"Don't be," Anne replied, brushing sweat-soaked hair out of her face.

Constance looked around fearfully. "I don't know if I can sleep again…"

"Just lie down," Aramis coaxed. "I'll be right here."

Her throat bobbed, but she gingerly lay back down on the cot, fine tremors still running through her body. Aramis pulled the sheet up to cover her shoulders and resumed stroking her arm in comfort. After a few minutes, her eyelids started to droop until they finally fell closed.

Anne was still sitting on the other side of Constance but was now looking at him. "I didn't know you'd been through something like that," she said softly. "The witch Milady?"

Aramis hesitated. "Yes," he reluctantly answered. "But the curse was broken. I'm fine now."

Mostly. The experience still haunted him, much the way Emilie's visions did her, and now Constance's dream. Such things left a mark not easily wiped away by waking up.

Anne was silent for a moment. "Do you believe black magic is involved here?"

Aramis looked up to meet her gaze. "I truly don't know."


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Anne and Constance waited tensely for what would become of them. Anne hoped that if these people did decide to execute her that they would spare Constance. She never should have dragged her into this.

The tent flap flung open as Emilie strode in. The older woman, black man, and Aramis followed behind. Anne and Constance rose to their feet.

"God has shown me what to do. You will return to Paris. Aramis will escort you."

Anne had to fight to keep an utterly relieved smile from breaking her composure.

"There is one condition for your release," Emilie went on. "The King must grant me an audience."

"I will do everything in my power," Anne quickly promised.

"Tell the King we treated you fairly. He has no need to be frightened of his people." Emilie turned, paused to look at Aramis, and then exited the tent. Her followers trailed after her.

Constance moved to pick up their cloaks. Aramis stepped in front of both them.

"Don't ever do that again," he said in a low tone.

Anne grimaced at the recrimination. "I will always serve my country," she said steadfastly. "But, perhaps this time it was unwise."

"Foolish is the better word."

Anne looked at Constance. "I am sorry for putting you in danger."

Constance shifted in discomfort. "Well, at least we can go now."

"I'll be right there," Aramis said, moving past them. He paused for a moment, then grabbed a canteen hanging off one of the posts and checked its contents. He then picked up a bowl of leftover soup from last night and poured it into the container.

"What are you doing?" Anne asked.

"I think this soup caused Constance's nightmare."

"But we all shared the same meal," Constance said.

"You used the same bowl as Emilie and had similar dreams. It might be coincidence but let's find out."

He capped the container and tucked it inside his jacket, then gestured for them to head out.

Every eye in the encampment followed them as they made their way to the bridge. Anne felt their hatred boring into her, and even with Aramis by her side, she didn't feel safe until they were well away from the camp. Aramis kept glancing over his shoulder, perhaps to make sure they weren't being followed.

They reached the palace and entered through one of the back doors. Anne only then realized she'd forgotten her dress back at Constance's, though it was too late to turn around and go there to get it. Aramis led the way through the halls, looking around to make sure the coast was clear. Anne felt a surge of gratitude for his discretion.

Unfortunately, fate was not going to spare her a second time, it seemed, for around the next corner, they came face to face with the King and Rochefort.

"Where have you been?" Louis demanded. He blinked dubiously at her clothes. "What are you wearing?"

Aramis opened his mouth as though to respond but faltered and looked to Anne, at a loss.

She grimaced. "I…went to see Emilie," she confessed.

Louis's eyes rounded. "You did what?" he nearly shrieked.

"You dare take the Queen into the heart of the enemy," Rochefort snapped at Aramis.

"Aramis did not take me anywhere," she rejoined sharply. "I went on my own. By God's grace, he was nearby and able to step in to escort me home. And these are our own people you speak of, Rochefort, not some invading enemy." She turned back to the King. "I was only trying to help put a stop to the violence."

Louis spluttered at her incredulously. "You left the palace, alone. Went to this Emilie's camp. What if you had been bewitched there? Or the Devil had possessed you?" His voice rose in pitch with each word until he was shrilling again.

Anne huffed in exasperation. "Do not be ridiculous. Emilie is not a witch."

She didn't know what the girl was, but she wasn't going to jump to witchcraft as the explanation for everything.

Louis's cheeks puffed red with rage. "But the sorceress Milady _is_ out there!" he shrieked, flinging his arm in a raving gesture. "I forbid you from setting foot outside the palace again!"

With that, he turned on his heel and stormed out.

Anne gaped after him in shock. She'd known how afraid he was of witchcraft, but he was taking it too far. They couldn't hide themselves away and neglect what was happening to their people.

"Escort Bonacieux's daughter back to the dragon compound," Rochefort ordered Aramis.

Aramis glanced at Anne first, and she gave a subtle nod for him and Constance to go.

When it was just Anne and Rochefort, the Comte drew a step closer to her.

"I commend your bravery, Your Majesty, but that was incredibly foolish of you."

She bristled at being called foolish a second time that day. "You are talking to your Queen, Rochefort. And while my actions may have been unwise, I have proven that Emilie can be reasoned with."

Unfortunately, she just realized she likely had zero chance of convincing Louis to meet with her now. If Emilie's demands weren't met, what would she do next?

"Besides," Anne went on, "the Musketeers might have a lead on what's causing her so-called visions from God, and it isn't witchcraft."

Rochefort's jaw ticked at that, though Anne couldn't understand why he would find such news irritating. If they could prove Emilie wasn't a witch, then perhaps the King would agree to meet with her after all. Anne hoped Aramis found answers soon, before more innocent people were killed.

.o.0.o.

On their way out of the palace, Aramis stopped at Lemay's apartments to request his assistance in examining the soup.

"Soup?" the physician repeated.

"We think there might be something in it that gives you nightmares," Constance explained.

Lemay blinked at them dubiously. "And how do you expect me to establish that?"

"You are a man of science," Aramis said.

"I'm a doctor, not an alchemist." He glanced between them. "But I will do what I can."

He retrieved his trunk of tools and accompanied them back to the garrison where Aramis gave him a room to work in.

"I should get home," Constance said. "My father is probably worried sick."

Aramis nodded, then grimaced. "I need to send someone to fetch Rhaego, let him know I'm not at the camp anymore."

"Will you be going back?" Constance asked in concern.

"I don't know. I suppose it depends on what Lemay finds."

Constance reached out to squeeze his hand. "Be careful."

Aramis gave her a soft smile in return.

She left, and Aramis went to the dragon dens where he found Savron and Vrita, along with most of the other dragons, and he realized the garrison was rather sparse of musketeers at the moment. Everyone seemed to be out, probably dispatching the mobs.

"Will one of you get Rhaego?" he asked. "I'm afraid I didn't have a chance to signal him when I left the camp."

Savron nodded and took to the air. Just then, Aramis spotted Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan entering the garrison, so he made his way over to them.

"You're back," d'Artagnan said.

"What did you find?" Athos asked.

Aramis grimaced, realizing he'd have to tell d'Artagnan his wife had gone to the camp without telling him. "I'm not sure yet," he answered. "Doctor Lemay is examining some soup that may be responsible for Emilie's visions."

"Soup?" Athos repeated dubiously.

"Better than from God, isn't it?"

Athos canted his head at that.

"Um, there was an…incident, while I was there," Aramis went on, then proceeded to relay the Queen's visit and what had transpired while she was at the camp.

"Constance is fine," he assured d'Artagnan when he finished.

"What the hell was the Queen thinking?" Porthos said gruffly.

"She just wanted to help," Aramis defended.

"She's lucky she wasn't executed," Athos said.

"She knows that."

"How long before Lemay makes a determination about the soup?"

"I don't know. I'll check."

Aramis headed for the workroom where he'd left the physician, only to find him completely passed out on the table. He rushed forward and shook the man's shoulder. Lemay made a sound, proving he was alive. Aramis grabbed his arm and slung it over his shoulder. Lemay began to rouse slightly as Aramis half dragged him outside.

"Get some fresh air. Breathe," Aramis encouraged.

Lemay stumbled against a post to brace himself. "Thank you," he panted.

The others noticed and hurried over. Athos stopped to pick up a cup of water from the yard table, which he held out to Lemay.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "What happened?"

Lemay took a drink, still breathing heavily. "I tried your soup."

"What did you discover?" Aramis asked.

"Minutes after I sampled it, I experienced a series of remarkable delusions. I believe the broth contains a powerful narcotic drug, probably derived from a species of wild mushroom."

The musketeers exchanged looks at that.

"So Emilie's faking these visions," Porthos said.

"No," Aramis countered. "The visions are real. And I believe her mother is the one behind it. Emilie is innocent."

"We still have to find a way to stop her," Athos pointed out.

Aramis nodded soberly. "I know a way she'll come willingly. We give her what she most wants."

.o.0.o.

When Savron returned with Rhaego, the four musketeers mounted their dragons and flew back to Emilie's camp. Aramis slid down from the saddle and made his way into the throng of people who parted to let him pass, though their gazes held suspicion now that he'd returned with the people he'd claimed to have deserted. He glanced back at his brothers, expression grim over what he had to do.

Emilie and her mother hurried out to meet him.

"The King has granted you an audience," he declared.

Emilie's face went slack with shock and she immediately dropped to her knees and crossed herself, bowing her head in thanksgiving. The crowd cheered.

"Raymond will choose twenty of our best men to accompany us," her mother said, grasping her daughter's hands and lifting her back to her feet.

"Emilie is to return with us," Aramis interjected. "Alone."

Everyone's joyous expressions faltered.

"It's a trap," her mother spat.

"Is it?" Emilie asked him.

It was, though perhaps not in the way she meant. Aramis consoled his conscience with the fact that they only wanted to help her see the truth, not harm her.

"You have my word."

Emilie smiled, then turned to her mother and nodded her agreement.

Her mother clasped the sides of her face. "If you're not back soon, we will tear down the walls to find you." She turned her scathing glower on Aramis. "Touch one hair on her head and Paris will burn."

"They won't harm me," Emilie said with confidence. She turned to exchange farewells with her followers, who cheered her name in triumph.

Aramis waited to walk her back to the dragons. "I hope you're not afraid of flying," he said casually.

She looked excited and nervous but flashed him another beaming smile. "God has laid out my path."

He looked away.

They reached Rhaego and Aramis helped Emilie up into the saddle, then swung up behind her. He slipped an arm around her waist to hold her steady, and then they departed into the air. Fortunately, it was a short flight to the palace.

Emilie gazed around the Louvre in wonder. "Who would ever have thought a peasant girl could command the audience of the King?" she mused out loud.

Aramis helped her out of the saddle.

"What's he like?" she eagerly asked. "Is he tall? Witty? Handsome?"

"All of those things," he answered. "To a degree."

They entered the palace and made their way through the corridors.

"I know you came to destroy me, Aramis," Emilie said, reaching out to clasp his arm. "There's no shame in defeat. God was on my side."

"Your holy war can only end in misery and blood," he answered tiredly. "You really think that's what God wants?" He shook his head. "You should have stayed in Duras and lived an ordinary life."

"There is no ordinary life," she insisted. "Not for me."

Aramis put his hands on her shoulders, willing her to listen. "You've been deceived and deluded."

Emilie shook her head and moved away from him, only to pull up short at the dark hallway they found themselves outside of. "What is this?" She took a step back in fear, but Porthos and d'Artagnan moved in behind her to cut off a retreat.

Athos took her arm firmly and tugged her forward.

"No!" she yelled, shooting Aramis a look of betrayal. "Liar! Traitor!" she screamed, struggling against Athos's hold.

Aramis couldn't bring himself to step in and help restrain her, so Porthos did, and they started hauling Emilie down the passage toward the dungeons.

"My people will come to rescue me," she railed. "They will march on Paris!"

"I don't think so," Athos said blandly.

"God will intervene to free me!"

"Perhaps," Aramis said, entering an open cell. Constance was already there, having prepared the room for them. "But not in the way you mean."

"Judas!" she screeched as she was flung inside. She stumbled to catch herself and turned around, all the fire suddenly gone from her. "Oh, am I to be burned?" she asked fearfully. She dropped to her knees suddenly, facing the wall, and prayed, "Dear Lord, don't let them send me to the fire. I am not brave enough."

Aramis's heart gave a pang for her. He understood the terror she was facing, one that was fanned every night in her dreams.

But her circumstance was different than his had been, and as much as he wanted to help her, he didn't feel he was equipped for it.

"Emilie, please…" he tried.

She got to her feet and flashed him another betrayed glare.

"We want to help you," Constance put in.

"Your visions are from soup," Athos said bluntly. "Not God."

Aramis sighed.

"We think you've been drugged," Constance picked up. "Perhaps for a long time."

"Your mother's been poisoning you," Aramis added.

"My mother?" Emilie said skeptically. She shook her head. "My mother loves me. She would never hurt me. I don't believe you!"

And she'd have no reason to. Not until afterward…

"Athos will watch over you," Aramis said. "He has some experience in these matters."

The look of fear on Emilie's face tore at his heart, but Aramis knew, deep down, they were doing the right thing.

Even if it didn't quite feel like it.


	5. Chapter 5

Aramis returned to the garrison to handle things since Athos was otherwise occupied, but a few hours later he went back to the palace dungeon to check on them. Emilie's screams were echoing all the way down the corridor.

"Noooooo! Get off me! Devillll! Devil!"

Her tortured sobs tore at Aramis's heart and conscience, and he had to turn and leave, unable to bear them a moment longer. Perhaps that made him a coward. Emilie was here because of him.

But her torment from the drug withdrawal was her mother's doing. Emilie was an unknowing slave to it, and the musketeers were only trying to free her.

Aramis went upstairs and found an alcove where he could sit out of the way, still within sight of the stairway down to the dungeon but far enough removed from its echoes. He pulled out his Bible and began to read, searching for solace among its passages to assuage his guilt and affirm his faith in his actions.

"Aramis."

He looked up in surprise, then quickly got to his feet. "Your Majesty."

The Queen had changed back into her own finery and was under the watchful eyes of her ladies-in-waiting and a pair of guards, paced several feet back to give them a small measure of privacy.

"Treville told me about Emilie," Anne said, then hesitated, looking uncomfortable. "How is she?"

"Coming down from a drug addiction is a difficult thing," he replied.

Anne nodded.

Aramis shifted his weight in the awkward silence that followed.

"I held so much hate for her," Anne finally spoke again, voice laced with shame. Her gaze drifted just past Aramis's shoulder, not quite looking at him. "I'm guilty of the very thing I condemned Emilie for preaching."

"No," he immediately protested, taking a step closer. "You were angry over the senseless violence and deaths. That is a righteous anger, not hate." He looked at the Bible in his hands and lifted it as evidence. "Even our Savior had his moments."

Anne finally met his gaze and tried to give a wan smile. "What will happen to Emilie now?"

"Once the drug leaves her body, I hope she will see the truth, that her visions aren't from God, and it is not his will to march on Spain."

"I pray you're right."

Aramis hesitated. "If she does," he said tentatively, "she should be allowed to return home. None of this was truly her doing. She was deceived by someone she trusted."

Anne nodded. "I will speak with the King on her behalf."

Aramis exhaled in relief. "Thank you."

The Queen offered him another small smile and he bowed respectfully as she turned to leave. Then he settled back in the alcove and returned to his Bible as the day waxed into evening. He couldn't bring himself to go down to the dungeon again, knowing it was likely too soon for much progress to have been made. Emilie's mother had been poisoning her for years; it would take a long time to purge the drug from her body.

D'Artagnan came by, probably to check on Constance. "How's it going?" he asked.

Aramis shrugged one shoulder.

D'Artagnan pursed his mouth in consideration. "Are you going to stay here all night?"

"Seems only right someone intercede on Emilie's behalf," he replied, reaching up to finger his rosary. "And we both know it won't be Athos."

D'Artagnan obliged him with a small smile at the attempt at humor. "I'll see if they need anything and then bring you some food."

Aramis shook his head. "No, thank you." He would fast and pray.

D'Artagnan looked unhappy but didn't press the issue.

The hours ticked on. Evening turned into night. And Aramis stayed in that alcove, reading and praying by candlelight.

Constance came up a few hours before dawn, looking drawn and exhausted.

Aramis quickly got to his feet, an open question in his eyes.

"She's resting now," Constance said. "The worst is over."

His shoulders slumped in relief. "Thank you, Constance. I know that could not have been easy."

She nodded. "I feel sorry for her. That dream I had…to be plagued by them every single night…" She folded her arms across herself. "How could her mother be so cruel?"

"She thought she was providing them with a better life than the one they had," Aramis said softly, though that was no excuse. How many people had died already because of that woman's ambitions? How many more would?

"I'll walk you home," Aramis said, reaching out to steer Constance away from the dungeon.

Since it was so late—or rather, early—when Aramis dropped her off at home, he decided to make a stop at his room at the garrison to catch a little sleep. Which turned out to be a few hours longer than he'd intended, even with leaving the curtains open so the sunrise would wake him early.

Hunger pangs made his stomach cramp but he ignored them as he made his way back to the Louvre to check on Emilie and Athos. The silence in the dungeon corridor was both a relief and a tad worrisome. Yet when Aramis entered the cell, Athos was calmly standing there, watching over Emilie where she lay on the cot.

"How is she?" Aramis asked, moving to stand over her. She was so still and pale, skin glistening with the remnants of sweat and hair dull and lank from sickness. She looked almost dead.

"She should be herself by now," Athos replied. "If she even knows who that is."

Aramis's jaw tightened and he gingerly sat on the edge of the cot. He took Emilie's limp hand in his and was relieved to find it was still warm with life.

She stirred at the touch, inhaling deeply as wakefulness brought her around. She looked around the pale light filtering through the high window. "How long have I been asleep?"

"About fifteen hours," Athos replied.

Her brows pinched. "I didn't dream once," she said in confusion.

Aramis looked at Athos, who gave a subtle nod of acknowledgement and left.

Emilie sat up, and Aramis reached out to steady her as she scooted back to lean against the wall. Her eyes were haunted, bereft.

"God has left me," she said brokenly.

"Not God," Aramis replied earnestly. "A drug has left you."

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I feel so alone."

Aramis's chest constricted. He hadn't wanted to destroy her faith.

"I was happier before," she breathed, gazing up at the barred window. "Even if it was a lie." She squeezed her eyes shut as the tears started to come. "My mother?" she asked him disbelievingly.

Aramis nodded regretfully.

"But she loves me. She wouldn't hurt me, would she?"

Aramis didn't have an answer to that, and as much as he wanted to comfort Emilie, they still had a mob to stop.

"You have a chance to redeem all this," he said instead. "One chance to find a true path back to God."

He hated manipulating her like this, the way her mother had. His only consolation was he was trying to save lives, not destroy them.

Though, the evidence was pretty clear that he had, in fact, ruined at least one…

.o.0.o.

They took Emilie back to the encampment. She slid off Rhaego's back without any assistance from Aramis, so he stayed seated on his dragon as she walked toward the edge of the camp. The people flocked toward her, and then in a silent wave of solidarity, took a knee before her like she was the Queen herself. Emilie half turned to look back at Aramis, and he saw the moisture glistening in her eyes. He wished he could stand beside her and offer strength, but this was something she had to do on her own.

"My friends…" she began. "You have followed me across France to do God's work. But this is where our journey ends. My visions were based on deceit and treachery. They were not from God."

Her mother jumped to her feet as surprised voices sounded throughout the throng.

"I renounce them," she declared.

"What are you saying?" her mother asked in disbelief. "They've corrupted you somehow—"

"This holy war," Emilie said louder. "Was a phantom of my imagination. It can only end in your deaths. I was blind, but now my eyes have been opened. I have one last message for you, this time an honest one. Go home!" Her voice broke with the pronouncement. "Our work here is finished."

Nearly every face in the crowd looked crestfallen, and Aramis realized more than one person's faith was being shattered here this day. People began to rise from their devout positions and look around at each other as though lost.

Emilie turned to her mother. "Why did you do it, Mother? Why did you feed me all those lies?"

"I _harnessed_ your gift. And brought you adoration!"

"It was you who wanted all that. I believed my visions came from _God_." Emilie shook her head in disgust. "You betrayed me for your own greed and ambition."

"I wanted a _life_ ," the old woman said desperately, moving forward to clasp her daughter's arm. "A better life for both of us. One we deserved."

"You destroyed my mind to grasp it." Emilie shook her head again and yelled at everyone, "Just go home! You have been deceived! Listen to your own hearts, not to those who would corrupt and mislead you!" Her voice broke with a sob. "Go home."

"Pack your things and leave," d'Artagnan spoke up. "You have one hour before the Guard puts you to the sword."

Aramis looked away, sending up a silent prayer that it wouldn't come to that.

"This is _not_ my daughter!" the old woman suddenly declared. "They have sent an imposter to do the Devil's work! Stand by me, and I will lead you to Spain! Nothing has changed!"

Aramis scowled under his breath. He had hoped that deep down, some small part of Emilie's mother did care for her daughter, but to publicly cast her aside like this…the woman had no shame. They should arrest her.

"False prophet!" Raymond shouted and lobbed a rock through the air. It struck Emilie's mother in the temple and dropped her instantly. Emilie screamed.

The dragons shifted and snarled, and Aramis leaped from the saddle, but by the time he reached Emilie, who was holding her mother's limp body in her arms, Raymond had vanished into the masses. No one else moved, stunned by the sudden violence turned against their own.

Aramis removed his hat and reached down to clasp Emilie's shoulder. She stiffened at the touch.

"Just leave me," she said brusquely.

He reluctantly stepped back, and the people finally began to disperse, leaving their once praised savior on the ground cradling her dead mother. Despite Emilie's justified aversion to him, Aramis didn't leave. He waited for most everyone to have departed the immediate vicinity and then went to get a piece of tarpaulin left behind. When he returned to Emilie, he wordlessly laid the canvas down next to her mother's body and waited for Emilie to release her.

Emilie didn't speak to him and he respected that, just silently helped wrap the old woman's body. She then moved away toward her tent and was gone for several minutes. Aramis waited.

Porthos and Vrita took to the air to survey the mass exodus.

Emilie returned with a single knapsack and her white horse. When she bent down to try to lift her mother on her own, Aramis stepped in to do it for her. Still she didn't say anything as he tied the bundle down over the back of the horse.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "You did the right thing."

Emilie just looked at him, expression numb.

Aramis reluctantly stepped back, and she took the horse's reins and headed off into the woods, alone.

He walked back to Rhaego and climbed into the saddle. Neither Athos nor d'Artagnan said anything.

A few minutes later, Porthos and Vrita returned.

"They've all gone," Porthos reported. He looked around. "Where's Emilie?"

"Headed home," Aramis replied.

Porthos frowned. "Will she be safe?"

"I hope so," he said. "Her power's gone, therefore so is the danger. Now she's…just another girl from Duras."

"You did right by her," Porthos said earnestly.

Aramis snorted. "I took her God away from her."

"Her God was a cruel lie, Aramis," d'Artagnan put in.

"She'll find her way back to Him," Athos added. "The right way. If there is one."

Aramis shook his head as their dragons shifted to take flight. He knew there was a God.

He just seemed enigmatically silent sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME
> 
> The musketeers must deal with an assassin leaving a trail of bodies in an attempt to target King Louis's cousin, Louise, plus Milady's latest machinations threaten to destroy d'Artagnan and Constance.


End file.
